


Pain at Its Worst, Happiness at Its Best

by TorunnSays412



Series: Painful Beginnings, Happy Endings [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bed sharing, slight angst, slight slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TorunnSays412/pseuds/TorunnSays412
Summary: "Dinner with the four of them, Mark reflects, was a good idea, until it got to the end where they were all heading back to their hotels."Mark and Jack are mugged, and the aftermath of this event proves to be far more eye-opening than first assumed.





	Pain at Its Worst, Happiness at Its Best

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this literally two years ago? I wrote it for a friend and it started out as something small and turned into the 50-page monstrosity you see here. I finally decided someone else should have the pleasure of enjoying this (which I had originally titled "end of my life" because this literally almost killed me). I'm so incredibly proud of this because it's out of my comfort zone, but at the same time I recognize some of the information I wrote into it may not be completely accurate. As such, take it with a grain of salt, and try to enjoy it anyways. If it's something glaringly wrong, leave a comment and I may update it and change it to be accurate.

Dinner with the four of them, Mark reflects, was a good idea, until it got to the end where they were all heading back to their hotels. Bob and Wade head off in one direction, and Mark leads Jack in the other, shouting over his shoulder that he will text the other two when he gets back to his room.

“Thanks fer paying for me, Mark,” Jack says, and rubs the side of his head. Mark grins and bumps his shoulder against Jack’s. Sure, it's annoying that Jack forgot his wallet (how does someone even do that?) but Mark knows that it was an honest mistake on Jack’s part and he can't be mad about it at all.

They pass the next few minutes joking and laughing, talking about the convention, and neither of them notice how quiet and empty the streets are, the dull orange glow of the lights washing over them. They do notice the man coming towards them, hunched with a hood over his head. They both automatically step over to the side to give him room to pass them.

They continue walking, their voices quieter now. Mark doesn't quite know why, but the appearance of the man has unsettled him. Although they don't say anything to each other, he can tell that Jack feels the same by the way that his shoulders rise and he stands straighter. 

Mark looks down, sliding his hand towards his phone in his pocket - just in case - and when he glances up he stops in his tracks. 

The man has stopped in front of them, feet planted wide, right hand in his pocket, and he's staring straight at them. 

“Hand over your wallets,” he orders, his voice low and rough. Mark’s own shoulders tense in response. When they don't move fast enough for him, the man’s hand flexes in his hoodie, and then he moves quickly, his hand flying out and revealing a gun. “Give me your wallets!”

Mark’s heart nearly stops.

He fumbles for his wallet and tries to stop his hands shaking. He throws it on the ground in front of him, watching as the man crouches to scoop it up without moving the gun from them. Jack has his hands in front of him and his mouth opens when the mugger points the gun at him.

“I'm sorry,” he says, “I don't have mine.”

The mugger stares at him for a moment, and then his eyes harden and he repeats, even louder, voice shaking only slightly, “Give me your wallet.”

“'M sorry, mate, I don't have it.” Jack's eyes are wide with panic. His accent is even stronger as he struggles to remain calm.

“It's true,” Mark interjects. “I had to pay for his dinner. He doesn't have anything.”

Mark’s eyes are drawn to the minute movements of the mugger’s index finger on the trigger, and he looks desperately around for something to help them. He notices - for the first time - that there is a woman across the street watching with large, frightened eyes and her mouth rapidly moving, her phone pressed to her ear. He hopes that she's talking to the police, and getting them help.

He thinks, that maybe, if she’s getting help, then he could risk tackling the mugger, fighting him, something. Anything to keep them safe and alive. Even for a little while longer.

He’s still staring at the woman across the street. The mugger notices his prolonged gaze, and when he shifts to follow it, his eyes narrow at the sight of the woman on the phone.

Several things happen at once. Time seems to slow down. The woman screams as the mugger points his gun at her. Mark tenses, preparing to leap on him, distract him, do something. And then Jack - Jack pushes past Mark - who stumbles back, unbalanced - and steps in front of the line of fire, just as the gun goes off. 

The shot rings in Mark’s ears, and will haunt his dreams for weeks afterwards.

The mugger curses loudly, and his hand is trembling now. Jack is still standing, feet planted wide, hand over his shoulder as ruby-red blood seeps between his fingers. The mugger raises his hand again - he doesn’t want witnesses, Mark thinks wildly - and Mark tackles him, causing him to lose his aim as he shoots again. 

Mark can’t look to see if the shot hit anyone, because he’s busy wrestling the man into unconsciousness. 

This guy is much taller than him, but also scrawnier. Mark probably has at least thirty pounds on him, with pure rage fueling him as he sends punches wildly into his opponent. The mugger is barely able to get any hits in, although he does manage to lift a chunk of rock and smack Mark in the forehead, dazing him. He knees Mark in the stomach, knocking the breath from the man’s body even as he keeps fighting. 

He hears, over the blood rushing in his ears, the woman screaming. Heels clack on the pavement. His vision is blurring with sweat and anger and blood and his breaths are coming shorter and shorter. 

He gets one more punch to Mark’s cheekbone - Mark’s amazed his glasses haven’t broken yet - but then Mark finally, finally, knocks him unconscious.

The woman's gasp is choked behind him, and her voice is loud as she screams at her phone, “Please, we need help now! We need help!” 

Mark feels sick as he twists around, and sees Jack on the ground, with blood everywhere. The woman has her phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder, hands against Jack’s arm, but there’s too much blood for it to just be his shoulder, there’s way too much, why is there so much blood?

Mark crawls over to his friend, feeling bruises form as he does so, wincing as he moves as fast as he can, gravel cutting into his palms. Blood from the slash on his forehead drips into his eye, hot and blinding. But when he finally gets to Jack’s side, his own pain fades as he realizes what's wrong. 

There are two bullet holes.

Jack is only barely conscious, but his whimper as Mark presses down on the second wound is clear. He’s in pain, a lot of it, and Mark doesn’t even know if he’ll survive the next ten minutes, let alone the night. 

The coppery tang of blood overwhelms his senses, dripping into his mouth from the cut on his forehead, the smell surrounding him as Jack finally passes out, red oozing from around Mark’s fingers. Tears sting his cheeks and he’s choking on panic as Jack’s life fades before him. Sirens deafen him as ambulances approach, paramedics dragging him away from Jack and forcing him to sit still for a quick check-up.

Why did Jack do that? Why did he think he needed to jump in front of the gun? What was he accomplishing by pushing Mark out of the way - the one who didn’t have the gun pointed in front of him?

The hospital - thank God - isn't far away, and when they arrive the paramedics are quickly moving Jack out of the ambulance. Mark stumbles after them, vaguely noticing that a cop car parks near them, and enters the hospital behind them. He watches as Jack is pushed further into the hospital, and knows this is one place where he won’t be allowed to follow. 

A nurse approaches him within seconds. She doesn’t look surprised at the state of his clothes or the blood coating his hands, dried on his cheek. She only says, “Would you like to use the restroom to clean up, sir?”

She leads him to a nearby bathroom, where he leaves her and locks the door behind him. 

And then, for several minutes, he stands there. He thinks, in the back of his mind, that this is when everything is finally sinking in. That they were mugged, and that he had nearly beaten a man to death, and that Jack had been shot. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispers to himself, staring at his own face in the mirror. There’s blood on his face the paramedic had missed in her haste to return to Jack, and the quick bandage is already spotted with red. He looks haunted, his eyes dark; his face is paler than usual, except for the dark bruise on his cheek.

He forces his gaze away from the mirror, and then sees his hands. He studies the crimson stains of Jack’s blood, fighting back nausea. This wasn’t supposed to happen. If either of them had to be shot, it should have been him, not Jack; he shouldn’t have his friend’s blood stuck under his fingernails, pressed into the lines of his palms.

Bile burns the back of his throat as he falls to his knees in front of the toilet, gagging, and he loses his dinner.

When he emerges, a long time later, the nurse is still standing there, but with a uniformed cop next to her now. The officer doesn’t smile at him, doesn’t bother trying to make him comfortable. (Mark’s not sure if that's helping his anxiety or not, as adrenaline shoots through his body and he has to shove his hands deep in his pockets to hide their shaking, and he knows it's irrational to be scared of the officer, but the attack is too recent and he can't help the thought of, I would be dead had it been this guy. I wouldn't be able to take him down.) He introduces himself as Officer Ramirez and then immediately starts asking questions.

“What were you doing in that area?”

“We were on our way back to our hotel - we had just gone out for dinner with some friends.”

“Did the mugger take anything from you?”

“My wallet, yeah.”

“How did the situation unfold from there?”

And so on. It gets to the point where Mark is wondering if this is a form of distraction or torture, if he’ll just be forced to answer questions until that inevitable moment when a doctor approaches him to say ‘I’m sorry, but. . .’

He bites his lip, and instead of shouting until his voice is gone, he hoarsely explains that no, he does not know the woman who had witnessed it. 

Finally, the officer says, “This is enough for now. I’ll call you with any updates, and I’ll be back to question your friend later.”

If he’s even still alive later.

The same nurse comes back once Ramirez is gone, and she guides him to the front desk, where she then takes her own leave with a short, quiet goodbye. The receptionist smiles gently at him and slides a clipboard over the desk. “You’ll need to fill these out for your friend the best you can. And I’ll send in a nurse to check that head injury for you.”

He sits - finally - in the waiting room and stares for a long minute at the first sheet of paper. His focus is wavering; he wants nothing more than for someone to tell him whether or not Jack will live through the night, so he could just know. 

He lifts the pen - black, thankfully, not blue, it looks nothing like the crystalline color of Jack's eyes - and carefully, forcing every part of his brain to focus on the movements of his hand, and watching as each curve of Jack’s name appears on the paper, he begins filling out everything he can. 

It takes him much longer than it should have, admittedly, but if he had gone any faster he would have broken down in tears. Then he would just need to complete a new set of paperwork, and he doesn’t want to think about what that would have done to him. He hands in the clipboard to the woman at the desk, and his face is grim as he says, “I’m sorry I can’t give any more information. He’s not from America, he’s just visiting and I don’t. . .”

She smiles warmly. “Don’t worry, sweetie, it happens. You’ve done the best you can with what you have. If we need anything else I’ll let you know.”

Mark thanks her and finds his seat again, sinking down into the flattened cushion, and thinks, if it was me in that room, would Jack have been able to do any better with the paperwork? Am I an awful friend for not knowing his family history, or what medications he’s on? Would he have those answers for me?

But that’s a train of thought he doesn’t want to follow, not now, not when he doesn’t know Jack’s fate. 

///

What feels like days pass, even though it’s barely only a couple hours. Mark has moved three times - once to get coffee, another time to switch seats with a young woman who needed more space for her toddler and the infant in her arms to rest, and then again to throw away the coffee cup after he’s finished it. 

A nurse approaches him, also, and leads him back to a small room where she checks him out quickly, replacing the bandage on his head and looking for any signs of a concussion. She also checks his ribs when he winces harshly standing. (They're not broken, thankfully.)

He texts Bob, really quickly, after the nurse releases him with a warning on concussions (she says he doesn’t have one, but that it’s better to be safe than sorry). Bob texts back immediately, asking him, ‘wait what’ and then ‘what hospital are you at’. 

Bob is there within ten minutes after Mark’s reply. He sits down next to Mark quietly, then asks, “What happened?”

Mark stutters his way through an explanation, and ends with, “It’s my fault.”

Bob shakes his head, places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Nothing is your fault, Mark. You had no idea Jack would step in front of the gun. You didn’t know what was going to happen. You stopped him, in the end, Mark. That’s what matters.”

Mark cries, after that. They still have no news on Jack, and he doesn’t know if he’s prepared to live in a world that doesn’t have him there. Bob does his best to reassure him, even if his own voice is tight with emotion as he watches his close friend break down in front of him.

At two- and has it really been only three hours since they had left the restaurant? - another nurse - or would it be surgeon? He's not sure anymore, he's too exhausted to know the difference - comes up to him. She looks like she's just come out of surgery (which means she's a surgeon, right?) with an aura of exhaustion surrounding her. Mark stands quickly, his hands trembling, as he asks breathlessly, “Is he okay?”

There’s a second where Mark is sure that she will say, “I’m sorry, but . . .”, the start of so many nightmares, ones that he’s been facing the entire time he’s been here. Every nurse, doctor, and employee of the hospital that passes through the waiting room, in his head, is there to give him bad news. 

So when a tired smile spreads across the woman's face, Mark nearly collapses, throwing a hand to the side to grab the wall as he tries to steady himself - because smiles are good, no one smiles when they’re delivering bad news. A smile means Jack is still alive. 

Mark could cry with the wave of relief that crashes over him. As it is, tears still blur his vision as the surgeon (nurse?) begins to speak. “It was very touch and go - we nearly lost him twice - but he’s stable. He’s resting now. You can go and see him, if you want.”

Mark nods shakily, and looks at Bob. His friend shakes his head, and pushes Mark forward to follow the surgeon down the hall. Every footstep is heavy, grief and exhaustion weighing him down.

Jack’s room is towards the end of a series of hallways that Mark loses track of. The surgeon thankfully keeps quiet along the way, not overwhelming him with information when he’s only barely holding together as it is.

Mark’s first thought, upon seeing Jack, is that it’s unnatural seeing him so quiet and still. Instead of Jack’s voice, he hears the sounds of machines beeping. Instead of Jack’s arms and hands flying about as he speaks, he sees the lines of the heart monitor moving steadily up and down. 

His second thought is that, as cliche as it is, Jack looks incredibly small and ashen in the hospital bed. The white of the bed sheets washes out already pale skin, and Mark can’t help but think, ‘You shouldn’t be there. I should have kept you away from him. It should be me.’’

He steps forward slowly, and doesn’t stop until he’s next to the bed, looking down on his friend. Behind him, the surgeon says, “The doctor should be around in a couple hours to check on him. I’ll leave you two alone.” She pauses briefly, then says, “He’s lucky, you know. Both in having a friend like you, and surviving that bullet.”

She leaves then, and Mark is left alone as he mutters, “Yeah. It’s the luck of the Irish.”

///

Jack wakes up slowly. His head aches, and his mouth is dry, and he can still feel the pull to go back to sleep. It’s so tempting, but he knows that he needs to do. . . something. Doesn’t he? There’s always something to do, there must be more today.

He turns his head to the side, eyes still closed, and even that action hurts him. He forces his eyes to open, moaning as dull light stabs into them. The urge to just ignore everything and go back to sleep is such a good thought at this time, but he can hear beeping that he doesn’t recognize, and the smell of antiseptic burns his nose.

When he finally manages to adjust to the light, he notices - Mark. Why is Mark in a chair next to his bed? 

Trying to sit up, he immediately groans, because that’s why - he got fucking shot last night. He flops back and instead looks at Mark. Morning light is striped across his face, the blinds from the windows doing very little to block it out. Jack can already tell that Mark couldn’t have fallen asleep like that - for one, his neck is angled so far back and to the side he’d be surprised if the other man would even be able to move it when he woke up. 

Jack can’t help but notice the bandage above Mark’s eye, the dark purple bruise over his cheekbone. He vaguely remembers the fight Mark had gotten in, wonders if he was hurt anywhere else.

Mark’s shirt is stained with blood. Jesus, did he go back to his room at all? Has he been here all night? Has it even been one night? How long has he been unconscious?

“Mark,” he says, as loud as he can - which isn’t loud, his voice is hoarse and cracked and he’s so thirsty - but Mark doesn’t even stir. He wets his throat the best he can, then repeats, “Mark. Mark, wake up.” 

He flexes the fingers of his right hand - the arm that doesn’t have a needle stuck in it - and nearly recoils as he feels warm flesh on his fingertips. He only calms when he realizes that Mark must have fallen asleep with his hand on the bed (or he had thrown it there sometime during his sleep). He stretches his fingers again and taps Mark’s hand and wrist hard, hoping that would succeed in waking him up.

It does.

Very suddenly, Mark sits up, his hair and eyes wild as he looks desperately around the room; the expression on his face turns from tight to upset. His hand flies to his neck as he gasps in pain, but when he sees Jack’s eyes, Jack swears the man nearly passes out. 

“Jack,” he whispers, eyes wide. “Oh my god, you’re awake.” 

Jack nods slowly, his head still aching. Mark scrambles to stand up and find the call button, pressing it hard, while at the same time he looks about ready to cry. “How do you feel?” he says, so quietly Jack only barely hears him.

“Like shit,” he responds with a cough, his throat rough. Mark can’t help but smile at that, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

A doctor comes in then, flicking on more lights as he goes, making both men wince (Jack, however, immediately wants to curl up in a ball as the light stabs his eyes and hurts his brain. Mark just looks squinty for a few seconds before he recovers.) The doctor smiles at Jack, and he approaches the bed with clipboard in hand. The appearance of this man terrifies him for just a second, before reason takes over when he glances at the white coat. 

(This is his first indication that he will not be recovering easily, mentally, from last night. If just seeing his doctor causes panic, even though he's an unfamiliar man, how is he going to react to people in the streets, who very well could harm him?)

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he says, and Mark parrots it back to him, while Jack only nods slightly. “I’m Dr. Gallagher. How are you feeling right now, Mr. McLoughlin?”

“Like shit,” Jack repeats; his voice sounds only marginally better than the first time he said it. 

“You can have some water, if you’d like,” the doctor says as he studies readings off the monitor, dark brow furrowed. “I’ll call a nurse to bring some.” He does so, then seamlessly switches topic to the surgery Jack had undergone.

“Now, were you told anything when you were brought up last night, Mister -?”

“Fischbach,” Mark supplies. “Mark Fischbach, and no. A - um, surgeon, I think, brought me here and then left me to calm down. I left once, to tell my other friend to get some sleep, but when I came back there was no one else here and I - passed out before anyone came back.”

Jack looks at his friend, who isn’t facing him but the doctor, and wonders what could have happened that Mark had needed to ‘calm down’. 

“Well, it is easier to explain it only the once,” the doctor muses, then casts his gaze down to the clipboard. “The first bullet entered and exited your shoulder. It was a clean exit, and easy enough to patch up. The second bullet, however, entered your side and nicked your spleen. Thankfully, the surgery to repair the damage went well. The damage to the organ was incredibly minimal.”

A nurse enters and sets a pitcher of fresh water on the bedside table, as well as a paper cup. Dr. Gallagher thanks her quickly before resuming. “You are an extremely lucky man, Mr. McLoughlin. That second bullet very easily could have caused you to lose your spleen entirely. Now, you may need to undergo physical therapy for your shoulder, but you should make a full recovery.”

Jack and Mark are both smiling - although Jack still can’t see Mark’s face, he can catch a glimpse of his profile, the slope of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. It’s easy to tell that the other man is relieved by the smile on his face, spreading across his cheeks, and the dropping of his shoulders.

“Now, I’ll administer some more pain meds, and I’m afraid you’ll have to finish off the paperwork Mr. Fischbach couldn’t complete for you. It will have to be done soon, but I’ll give you some recovery time. Drink a little water - don’t go overboard, no more than a cup for now - and relax. I’ll have a nurse bring it by in an hour or so.”

He asks Jack only a few more questions, then, with his observations done, medication given, and his explanation taken, the doctor turns on his heel and leaves. Mark shifts to face the bed again, then reaches for the pitcher to pour Jack a cup of water.

Then he helps Jack sit up and drink it (Jack’s hands are shaking way too much to hold even the fairly light paper cup, but he can’t help but notice that Mark’s are trembling slightly as well), his hands gentle and his eyes warm, if still tainted by barely-concealed panic and worry.

When Jack has finished half the water, Mark takes it away from him and then keeps him sitting up to add another pillow behind him so it’s easier to hold a conversation. Jack thanks him quietly as he gets comfortable again.

Jack’s staring at the ceiling and feeling grateful as the meds kick in, his pain vanishing slowly but surely. Then he remembers Bob and Wade - Mark was supposed to text them, so does that mean they know what had happened? Did anyone know what had happened? Who was the friend that had waited with Mark?

“Mark,” he says slowly, and Mark hums as he tries to stretch his neck out. “How many people did ya tell about last night?” 

“Bob,” Mark responds quietly. “I texted him that we were at the hospital, and he kept me company while you were in surgery. He left soon after I came back here.” He bites his lip then. “I’m assuming he told Wade, as well.”

Jack closes his eyes. Then he says, feeling exhaustion begin to pull him under, and concentrating far too hard on every word, “Are yeh okay, Mark?”

The noise Mark makes is strangled. “Wha- why are you asking me? I should be asking you - you were the one who was shot twice!”

“’M asking because you’re the one who saw me get shot, and the one who knocked the bastard into next week. I may have been shot, but I passed out fer half of it. You were there fer the whole thing.” Even as Jack is speaking, his words are beginning to slur. The pain meds are really strong, he notes. 

He’s nearly asleep when Mark responds. “No, Jack,” he says quietly. “No, I’m not alright.”

///

His doctor says that he can leave in a couple days - which means he’ll have to cancel his flight - and that he won’t be able to travel for probably close to two weeks - at least. Knowing how his luck works, it will probably be longer.

(The thought of all those videos he won’t be able to make is causing him to panic. He hasn't missed an upload in years; how will his subs react when he gives no immediate explanation?)

Dr. Gallagher also tells him, “I don’t recommend you staying on your own, especially not in a hotel. I know you’re only visiting, and that this probably has ruined every single plan you have, but you seem to have friends here. Try and see if you can stay with one of them so there’s a lesser risk of something happening.”

Mark had gone out to get some lunch from the cafeteria and try to freshen up. Jack thinks that if he had been in the room when the doctor had dropped by, that Gallagher probably would have just straight up told Mark, “You’re stuck with him.”

Jack is busy reading the paperwork that the nurse had given him. “Normally, we would have given you a fresh copy, so you could fill it all out yourself, but our printer is broken. Plus we’re trying to save paper. If there’s a mistake, though, don’t hesitate to ask for another one,” she entreats, before leaving as quickly as she’d come. 

He can’t stop staring at Mark’s handwriting because - it just doesn’t look right. He knows Mark’s penmanship. Normally it’s very messy, because he’s writing so quickly. This looks - forced, like he was a child first learning his letters, spending twice the amount of time needed on each word.

By the time Mark returns, Jack has filled in the blanks on the first page. He takes Mark’s arrival as an excuse for a break, and sets the pen down to smile warmly at his friend. Mark grins back and takes his seat next to the bed. 

He seems more awake now, his eyes brighter, hair slightly less disheveled. He’s still wearing the same shirt, which is really going to drive Jack up the wall soon, but otherwise he looks better. The coffee cup he clutches tightly probably has something to do with it, but Jack doesn’t blame him. 

“The doctor came by,” Jack says. “He told me that I can’t travel for at least two weeks. And I also need a new roommate.” 

“You can stay with me,” Mark offers, brows raising slightly. “It’s not a problem. Besides,” he adds. “You can pay me back for dinner then. You still owe me for that.” His voice is joking, but the tightness in his voice tells the truth on his feelings, and though Jack laughs with him, he can't help but think, No. I owe you for more than dinner. You saved our lives back there.

An hour passes. Jack finishes the paperwork, and Mark goes to drop it off for him. He comes back only minutes later, and he seems to be struggling to stay still, evidenced by the way he keeps fidgeting, with his fingers and the hem of his shirt and his phone.

Jack is beginning to lose it, watching Mark’s pent up, caffeine-induced energy.. 

Coffee can only keep a man awake for so long, especially after only getting two hours of sleep in a hospital chair while waiting for an agonizing three hours for any news on a friend’s surgery.

On top of the ever-present stress and draining life of a YouTuber (especially one at any convention), Jack, who is known for not sleeping like he should, isn’t even sure how Mark is functioning as well as he is.

“Go back ta the hotel, Mark,” he finally says, twenty minutes into a soap opera that’s playing on the small television across the room. He doesn't understand a single thing that's happening because he’s fighting sleep instead of paying attention. “Go shower, change, charge yer phone.” When Mark opens his mouth to protest, Jack cuts him off by telling him, “I’ll still be here. I’ll still be fine.”

Mark looks down at his shirt - Jack hasn’t really stopped looking at it, honestly, the thought that Mark is literally wearing his blood - and then nods. “Yeah, okay. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“My laptop, if yeh would. And the charger,” Jack adds. “Thanks, Mark.”

Mark smiles back. “You’re welcome.”

As he’s leaving, Jack calls after him, “Take a nap, too! Ya need it!”

Mark doesn’t respond, but Jack knows he heard him. The shake of his shoulders as he left betrayed that fact.

Once Mark is gone, however, he realizes how lonely being in a hospital really is. His room isn’t a single - there are two beds, the one he’s in, plus an empty one across the room, but just because there could be someone there doesn’t make him feel any better.

A nurse - Sheila, she introduces herself as - comes in with a bright smile, only minutes after Mark’s departure. Jack perks up at her arrival. 

“Would you like help getting to the bathroom, Mr. McLoughlin?” she says. “I can bring you some lunch, as well.” He can’t help the excited nod he gives her - he wants out of this bed and food sounds wonderful right now, no matter how tired he is.

///

When Mark gets back to his hotel room, he sits on the bed and stares at the wall. He should have left for home today, should be recording videos right now. But there’s no way in hell that he’s leaving Jack (not counting the fact that he has no license, or money. He hadn’t gotten his wallet back...

Finally, he gets up and sets his phone to charge, strips out of the blood-stained shirt and drops it on the floor. Then, grabbing clean clothes, he goes to shower, washing the stress of the last 12 hours away.

He checks his phone while he scrubs a towel over his hair, trying to dry it quickly so he can leave faster, go back and check on Jack. There’s a message from Bob, asking if he and Wade should drop by the hospital for a visit today or tomorrow. He responds that he’ll ask Jack when he gets back, then switches to twitter. 

He stares at his feed, scrolling through without seeing anything. Some of his fans are asking where his new video is, asking about the lack of presence on social media (because of course he knows where Jack would be, and why he hasn’t been on either). 

He types out a quick tweet, explaining that there was a personal emergency that came up, that he was fine and would appreciate if they didn’t ask about it, and that there won’t be any new videos for a little bit past today (he doesn’t have any stockpiled, he has definitely learned his lesson now).

Mark then turns his phone on silent; he doesn’t want to hear any notifications, he doesn’t want to see the replies to his tweet from worried fans, or the questions about Jack. He doesn’t want to think about it at all, but he needs to get back to the hospital, return to the scene of the horror that his life had turned into for those three hours last night. 

(Jack had told him to take a nap, and he really should. He should try. He hadn’t slept well last night, considering he was in a chair, and he had been plagued by nightmares. He knows, though, that no matter how hard he tries he won’t be able to leave Jack alone for that long. The guilt would consume him.)

His hair is dry enough, he decides, and throws the towel back in the bathroom. Then he hunts around until he finds the extra room key Jack had shoved at him with a massive, goofy grin when he had first arrived, saying, “I don’t need two, you take it so yeh can bring me snacks when I’m too lazy ta get up.”

Jack’s room is down the hall, and opening the door he has to struggle to breathe a little, because Jack could have died last night, and then what would have happened with his things? Would Mark be forced to come and pack it all, send it to Ireland where Jack’s mother would be heartbroken at the death of her youngest son, a death Mark could have prevented? 

He needs to stop thinking. He needs to stop considering the ‘what ifs’. He can’t keep doing this to himself. 

Jack’s laptop is on the desk across the room, and he grabs it quickly, scooping up the charger, and as he’s leaving he spots Jack’s wallet sitting by the TV. He grabs that, too, figuring it wouldn’t hurt for him to bring it.

The walk to the hospital doesn’t take that long (although he receives strange looks from the people around him for carrying a laptop out in the open, and honestly he probably should have grabbed a backpack, now thinking about it. It’s like he’s asking to get mugged again). 

Jack has a tray in front of him when Mark gets back to his room. It has a salad on it, the remains of pudding and some other snacks, he’s sure. Mark sets the laptop on the table next to the bed, tucking the charger behind it, and Jack looks up at him with mournful eyes and says, “I wanted pizza.”

Mark smiles, laughs a little, and finally starts to feel better about the whole situation. 

An hour or so passes. Jack finishes his salad, and tells Mark that Bob and Wade can visit tomorrow, before they leave for the airport. They watch TV for a little bit, and they’re laughing and talking, just like everything is normal.

It’s three when Officer Ramirez shows up, a paper bag with him. “Mr. Fischbach,” he greets. “Mr. McLoughlin, I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

Jack casts a glance at Mark, the slight panic in his eyes at seeing this unknown man making Mark’s heart ache. Jack never deserved this. “Good to see you, Officer,” he says. “Do you have something?”

Ramirez holds out the bag. “We found your wallet. It was on the ground next to where you left the mugger. His name is FredHarding.” Mark accepts the bag, opening it to find that, yes, his wallet is there, and nothing is missing.

“You’re allowed to keep it. We have Harding in custody, as well as a witness.” The officer then turns to Jack, sitting silently in bed, and asks him, “Are you well enough to answer some questions?”

Jack checks Mark’s face quickly, but then nods. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Ramirez is quick to ask his questions (most of which he had given Mark the night before) and Jack answers them honestly and just as quickly. Mark can see in his face that he would rather be anywhere but there (probably back at his own home in Ireland, away from America completely). 

“There’s no way he’ll be getting away with this,” Ramirez says suddenly, raising his gaze to look at the two men across the room. “He’ll be getting jail time. You don’t need to worry about him being out on the streets anymore.” 

Mark nods, slightly, feeling sick at the thought of Harding. Jack’s face is pale. 

After Ramirez has left again, promising to keep them updated (and after Mark has told him that they would need to leave within the next couple days), Jack is quiet. Mark lets him be, thinking that the police officer’s appearance has suddenly just made this entire experience more real for the Irishman. 

A nurse drops by to give Jack his dinner. Mark leaves to grab something for himself, and gets a sandwich that doesn’t look too awful. He doesn’t eat until he’s back in Jack’s room, then they continue watching TV until finally Jack suddenly says, “Thank you.”

Mark cocks his head towards him, eyes leaving the small screen to stare at his friend. “What for?” he asks curiously.

“Fer not leaving me here alone,” Jack tells him quietly. He’s avoiding Mark’s gaze. Mark turns his body towards Jack, and puts a hand on his friend’s knee, tapping it with his index finger until Jack finally looks at him. Mark smiles at him warmly.

“You would have done the same for me, Jack. You don’t need to thank me for being a friend in your time of need,” he says softly. Jack’s blue eyes are wide with emotion, but he nods anyway.

Jack seems to return to himself after that, although he still acts slightly subdued. Mark feels potent anger at the sight of his friend so quiet and still - suddenly he thinks that if the mugger were here right now, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hurting the guy again. (And he would rather not go to jail.)

Mark is kicked out by a nurse when visiting hours end. Jack is on his laptop, cursing under his breath as he tries to cancel his flight with the crappy hospital internet. 

(He leaves Jack’s wallet on the table, where Jack won’t find it for another hour, when he sets his laptop to the side. He can’t help but smile when he sees it, even though the sight of it hurts a little too.)

///

The next day, Mark meets up with Wade and Bob for a quick breakfast. He had woken up early (after falling asleep far too late, worries plaguing his mind until he couldn’t handle it anymore why does he keep thinking like that) to drop by Jack’s room and pack his things as quickly as possible. When he’s checked the space over twice, he drags everything back to his own room, where it will stay until after breakfast. 

Then he needs to throw everything in the car, check out of both of their rooms, and find a new hotel that is still close to the hospital. They won’t be leaving for another couple days, but he can’t stay in the original hotel anymore (apparently they were booked solid for the next week, meaning he couldn’t extend his stay further than the one day). He’s annoyed by it, but he's more worried about Jack than he is annoyed, so he'll take anything he can get.

Bob and Wade are already at the small diner when he shows up, and he slides into the booth across from them. They look at him for a long minute while he studies the menu, and after he’s ordered he finally stares back.

“What?” he says, trying to pretend that he doesn’t know exactly what they want, wanting to forget everything already (even though he knows that isn’t possible, not yet).

“Come on, man, just tell me what the hell happened,” Wade exclaims. “Bob didn't explain anything.” With a sigh, Mark sips his hot coffee, then explains the mugging, how he had ended up staying at the hospital, what happened after Jack woke up. 

By the time he’s finished their food has come - his pancakes look delicious, although his appetite is almost completely gone now - and both his friends look a little sick (that could be him projecting his own emotions though).

“They nearly lost him twice?” Wade says quietly. Mark nods without looking at him or Bob, instead cutting his pancakes with a focus he hasn’t exhibited since struggling with Jack’s paperwork. “We could have lost him so easily. . .”

Mark swallows hard, and hopes the other two don’t notice how he only barely touches his food after that.

He goes back to the hotel after breakfast, and manages to take both his and Jack’s bags down in one trip. (He nearly loses feeling in one arm, and he drops Jack’s backpack while fumbling for his car keys, but he does do it.) Then he quickly checks out for both Jack and him, and gets back in the car to go to the hospital.

Mark’s arrival at Jack’s hotel room is only barely noticed - meaning Jack smiles and greets him warmly, while Bob and Wade are more interested in Jack (which is understandable).

Mark stays only for a little bit, because he wants to find Jack’s doctor to ask him some questions. He ignores Jack’s curious look and leaves silently, going to a nurse’s station to ask if anyone has seen Dr. Gallagher.

A blonde nurse calls the doctor to the station for him, and the man is there quickly after that. 

“What can I help you with, Mr. Fischbach?” the doctor asks kindly.

“I just had a couple questions. One of them, of course,” Mark says lightly, “is when I can get Jack out of here.”

Dr. Gallagher chuckles and nods. “Yes, everyone wants to know that. Your friend has been recovering very well. If all goes well, he should be released within the next couple days.”

“Great,” Mark says. “And my other question is about his surgery. . . the woman who brought me to Jack’s room told me that they nearly lost Jack twice. Is that true?” His voice has dropped in volume by the end - he's not sure if he really wants the answer to his question, but he needs it.

The doctor sighs, but inclines his head slightly. “Unfortunately, yes. Like I said, he did experience blood loss, and the procedure to save his spleen was very sudden.” 

“But you told him that the surgery went very well?”

“I will be honest and say that I was not informed that there had been any difficulty with the surgery,” Gallagher says. “I had only just come in to the hospital when I went to Mr. McLoughlin’s room. My colleagues didn’t tell me until later that it hadn’t been added to his medical chart.”

“Will you tell him?”

Gallagher shakes his head slightly. “At this point, I don’t see any reason. He’s recovering perfectly fine. It would just upset him to learn it.”

Mark nods, even if he doesn't quite agree; doctors are supposed to know best, right? 

“Do you have any more questions?” the doctor asks. Mark shakes his head. 

“No, thank you.” 

The man smiles and nods and backs away to return to his patients.

Mark, on the other hand, goes to the bathroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror, thinking over and over, Jack doesn't even know how close he actually was to dying.

He slides his glasses off, holding them loosely in one hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The he sets his glasses on the side of the sink and splashes water on his face and tries to get himself under control. Jack doesn't need to know. He doesn't need to know how close Mark was to losing it, how he would have lost it if Jack had died. 

He can do this. 

He pushes his glasses back up his nose, and Mark returns to Jack’s room to talk with his friends before he needs to drive them to the airport. 

///

The day Jack is released is the day he decides that he needs to tell his subscribers the whole story, and explain exactly why he ‘disappeared.’

Mark, when Jack tells him, just nods and says that they can record a video when they get to his house (and the fact that Mark has just automatically included himself in the video makes Jack so incredibly grateful, because he really doesn't want to do this alone, and Mark had been dealing with the police, so he knows more - and, Jack would need to borrow Mark’s camera anyways. And probably his computer to edit it and upload it.)

It's the day after Jack had thought he would be leaving - the doctor had decided that he needed to be held for one more night before he was satisfied that Jack wouldn't keel over and die the second he left the hospital. 

He feels bad, because that's one more day that Mark can't upload anything, and if it had gone on any longer, Jack would have had nothing as well. He’s set for this morning, but he doesn’t have one for this afternoon. (Sure, he stockpiled videos in case of flight delays or whatever, but he didn't have that many videos. He didn't think he'd end up mugged and in the hospital.) 

But finally, Jack is able to leave, and Mark had brought him a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt to change into. He had never been so glad to wear his own clothes again. 

He's excited to leave, brimming with energy, but the moment he's sitting in the passenger seat of Mark's car, he's already falling asleep. (So he was still recovering and drugged. Sue him.) 

It takes Mark three tries to wake him, and even then he has to help Jack into the house and onto the couch. He stays a moment to make sure Jack is comfortable, brings him a glass of water and the TV remote, and then he leaves again to pick up Chica. 

Jack barely notices his absence, as he's too busy watching Cupcake Wars and wondering - out loud - if he could convince Mark to get him some cupcakes. He thinks he could do it. Eventually.

Right now, the couch is comfortable, and he thinks another nap is in order.

///

It's Chica that wakes him this time. The dog runs to the couch and Mark only barely catches the action in time to call her back and keep her from lunging on Jack and waking him. Even so, the shrill bark Chica lets out startles him awake anyways. 

Mark smiles sheepishly as he stares at Jack, who's blinking rapidly and rubbing his face. “Sorry about that.”

“It's fine,” Jack assures him, voice hoarse, “I needed ta wake up anyways.”

Chica wags her tail, then hurries back to Jack and shoves her face into his thigh. She pants, and Jack smiles tiredly as he strokes a hand over her head and neck. 

“Do you feel like filming today or waiting?” Mark asks quietly after several minutes of watching Jack pet his dog.

‘Neither,’ Jack wants to reply, but he knows that that's not possible. He owes an explanation to his fans for his absence, and for Mark's tweet from the other day. He needs them to know that it's his fault Mark hasn't uploaded in days, and hasn't offered any explanation as to why.

“Now,” he says finally. “It needs to be done eventually I guess.”

“I'll set up the camera then,” Mark replies helpfully. 

Jack nods, still fighting sleep. Forcing himself to stay awake at the hospital while Mark was there probably hadn't been a good idea, but he couldn't let him just - sit there, alone. It wasn't fair to Mark, not when Jack was the reason he was there.

Mark leaves, and Jack manages to pull himself off the couch and find the bathroom. He avoids looking at his too-pale face as he splashes water on it, then ducks his head to drink from the faucet.

Returning to the couch, he finds that Mark has set up the camera there, instead of his bathroom or his normal set-up. He doesn't ask, and Mark doesn't say anything, but Jack realizes it's for him.

He sits down and pets Chica again, smiling softly as she nuzzles into his hand. Mark sits next to him, and says, “We're recording. You ready?” Jack feels a little sick inside, but it's something he needs to do, so he nods and pastes a smile on his face.

Mark pushes forward, forcing the beginning of the video. (Neither of them does their normal intros; a simple greeting is enough, because Jack just doesn’t have the energy.) “So, I know some of you are wondering what's been going on. It's not a long story, but it is serious. We'd both appreciate it if you treat it as such and understand that we have it under control.”

He stops. Jack sucks in a breath, then continues, “The other night, after Vidcon, Mark and I were walking back to our hotel and we were mugged. The mugger had a gun, and I don’t think he actually intended to hurt someone...”

“There was a woman across the street. She was on her phone, and she had seen everything,” Mark tells the camera, understanding that this is hard for Jack by the way his shoulders have tensed and his face has drained of blood. “When the mugger saw her, he shot the gun. Jack was hit.”

Jack doesn’t need to look at Mark to realize that the other man is suppressing tears. The tightness in his voice betrays him. (He refuses to admit that he’s close to tears as well, that remembering the night he had nearly died is doing absolutely nothing for him right now.) Jack forces himself to speak, to let Mark step back for the second.

“He shot me another time, but he wasn’t aiming fer me. Mark tackled him, got in a fight, which is why his face looks like that.” Jack gestures to Mark, who makes a face at him, and he’s glad that even after this, they can still pretend to be normal for their fans. “Mark stayed with me. He talked ta the police, and stayed at the hospital fer far longer than he needed to. I was in surgery fer three hours, and he was there the whole time. When I woke up, he made sure he was there.

“That's why he hasn't uploaded, guys. He's been with me in the hospital fer the last few days, keeping me company while I recovered. I had some videos ready already, but this will be the second video fer today and the last one I’ve got prepared. I've stayed off social media, as well, because I was recovering and didn't know how to say anything that wouldn't sound worse than the situation actually is.” He gives a short laugh, one that sounds forced even to his own ears. “Mark's letting me stay with him while I recover, and I'll try to keep as close to my normal schedule as possible, but if I miss an upload I hope you guys can forgive me.”

He glances back at Mark, silently asking if he has anything to add. Mark tilts his head back toward the camera. “I want you guys to know that while this was traumatic for both of us, we are fine. Jack is recovering, and the police already have the guy who did this in custody. There is no reason for worry.”

They end the video soon after, giving their goodbyes. Then Jack leans back and closes his eyes, wondering what the consequences would be if he just never got up again.

(That's a ridiculous thought, though, because he would get bored very quickly, and he would miss home eventually.)

Mark stands and pats his shoulder on the way to the camera. “I'll edit this, and then you can upload it when you're ready, okay?” Jack nods slowly, and doesn't look as Mark leaves him, Chica following at his heels.

It's easy to get lost in his thoughts with nothing to distract him. 

///

It takes Mark very little time to edit the video; it’s fairly short, thankfully, and he was able to calm down once he was sitting in front of the computer. 

He knows it’s the early afternoon now, even without looking at the clock on his computer. He’s starting to get hungry, a consequence of not having eaten since breakfast, and he doesn’t even know what’s in his fridge. 

Pushing back from his desk, he stands and stretches, then makes his way out to the kitchen. He passes Jack, still laying on the couch, one hand falling over the side to rest on Chica’s back. The dog looks at Mark steadily, and Mark is thankful for her keeping Jack company while he was editing. 

The pantry yields very little success. (It really has been a long time since he’s been grocery shopping.) There’s a box of pasta, though, and some sauce, so maybe he’ll make spaghetti for lunch?

The fridge is much the same, with half the food in there no longer edible. 

Spaghetti it is then.

He starts the water boiling, then wakes Jack to let him go and upload his video. (He knows how important his schedule is, how guilty he would feel if he put up a late video.)

Jack thanks him sleepily and pads out of the room down the hall, Chica sniffing at his heels.

When he comes back, lunch is ready. Mark is sitting on the couch, a bowl sitting on the coffee table for Jack. His friend sits down gingerly, the ache in his torso still prominent, and eats slowly, eyes unfocused as they stare at the TV. 

Silence stretches between them. “Don’t feel guilty,” Mark blurts around his spaghetti, and, wow, he really needs to learn to filter his thoughts, doesn’t he? Jack turns to stare at him, confusion pinching his eyes and dragging the corners of his mouth down. “I mean, you shouldn’t feel guilty for keeping me from uploading. It’s really not your fault. I know you would have done the same for me, except you’re always way more prepared than I am.”

Jack’s face relaxes, but his fingers are white around his fork. Mark knows he won’t stop blaming himself, no matter what he says. 

Mark takes care of their bowls, reminding Jack to take his medication as he leaves, the words sticking in his throat. He washes the dishes far harder and longer than he needs to, struggling to keep himself under control because - he hates this. He hates the long silences and the self-deprecating thoughts that he knows are going through his friend’s head, the same ones that are forcing their way through his own mind. 

Chica bumps her head against his thigh, and he sets the bowl aside as he sighs. He dries his hands, then lets her out in the yard. He watches her run along the fence through the screen door for a minute or so, then heads back to Jack so he can let him know that he’s going to record a couple quick videos. 

///

Mark doesn’t sleep that night, not for very long at least. He’s afraid to sleep, afraid to rewatch the mugging in his dreams and wake up drenched in sweat, throat hoarse from muffled screaming into his pillow. 

(The second night after Jack wakes up, he startles awake from a nightmare with tears streaming down his face, and he chokes on his midnight grief as he relives the sight of Jack’s fallen body, over and over again...)

Chica stays with him the entire night, seeming to realize that something isn’t right with him. He coaxes her up from the bottom of the bed and tangles his fingers in her fur, holding her tight as sobs wrack his body.

He must fall asleep at some point in the early morning light, because the next thing he knows is that Chica is licking his arm and his clock is showing five minutes past six. It’s too early to get up, he knows, but Mark also knows that he won’t be getting back to sleep anyways. 

So he lets Chica outside and gives her breakfast, takes a hot shower and drinks a cup of hot coffee, and pouring another cup into a travel mug. Then he shoves some shoes on, checks on Jack (still sound asleep) and leaves a note telling his temporary roommate that he’s off to find breakfast (because all he has in the kitchen is stale cereal). 

There’s a McDonald’s down the road, and a Starbucks, but he really doesn’t want to deal with figuring out what Jack would want (even though he’d probably eat anything Mark got him, whether or not he liked it). The grocery store he normally goes to is closed, seeing as it’s not even seven yet. 

There’s a Walmart a couple blocks away. It’s open 24/7 and has groceries, which sounds awesome to him right now. 

When he finally gets back home, anxiety at leaving Jack alone causing him to move much faster than usual, it’s just past eight, and Jack is still asleep. Chica watches as he puts away the groceries and then makes himself an omelette for breakfast, just for something to pass the time before he locks himself away to record videos. 

///

Two hours later, and Mark has finished two videos, and has started editing one, when he realizes that he hasn’t heard anything from Jack.

He stands suddenly, only barely remembering to save his progress, before he stumbles out of the room and hurries down the hall to the guest bedroom. 

Jack is still there. He hasn’t moved much since the last time Mark checked on him, and that’s what forces Mark forward on weak knees to drop beside the bed to check his pulse.

(So what if he’s a little paranoid? He’s had too much coffee and too little sleep, and he’s allowed this moment of almost-insanity as he breathes out with relief upon feeling his friend’s slow, but steady, pulse.)

He leaves the door open a crack and enters the kitchen, fumbling for a glass to fill with water. He drains it in seconds, then sets it to the side and stares out the window for several minutes. 

It’s then that Jack finally wanders out of his room, rubbing red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Mark turns to watch as the Irishman stumbles to the pain medication he had left on the counter, and he picks it up to stare at the label for a long few seconds before opening the bottle.

“There’s an extra computer in the room down the hall,” Mark tells him. “And some old cameras in the closet. Feel free to use them to film today, unless you want to wait until later, when I’m done.” 

Jack shrugs, and heads to the fridge for the milk. “I might start before, but I don’t know yet. I’ll let ya know in a bit, if yeh want.”

Mark nods, then slinks out from his own kitchen while tired blue eyes glare into his pantry like the contents had personally offended Jack.

He goes back to editing, trying to ignore how - off, he looks in the footage. The bruise on his cheekbone is distracting, the cut over his eye healing slowly. His eyes don’t seem as bright behind his glasses, exhaustion staining the skin below them; and though his voice is the same, he swears he can detect something lying underneath false excitement. He just can’t tell what it is. He hopes that no one else will notice once the video’s live.

(Knowing his subscribers, he doubts it.)

///

The first thing Jack does after waking up (besides eating) is check twitter. His mentions are flooded with people expressing their condolences after watching the new video, and he replies to some of the really nice ones. 

Some of his friends had tweeted as well. (Felix is heartfelt in his tweet, serious for once as he expresses his grief. The text he had sent immediately after is much angrier, with demands of ‘why the fuck didn’t you tell me you irish bastard’ . Jack feels guilt at not letting him know earlier, but to be fair, he truly only told his parents what had happened. Mark was the one telling their friends.)

He checks Mark’s twitter, as well, and finds that his mentions are much the same. Satisfied for the moment, he texts Felix back, throwing apologies at him until the Swede responds with a passive-aggressive ‘fuck you man don't get shot again please america clearly hates you’. 

This brings a smile to Jack’s face and makes him laugh, even though it hurts his body to do so. 

But the thought of Mark, with dark shadows under his eyes to match the bruise on his cheek, causes him to sober quickly. He had watched quietly, sitting in that hospital bed, as Mark continued to look worse each morning. Jack had hoped that being home, sleeping in his own bed, would help his friend, but it’s clear that it hasn’t. 

He’s the same, though. His own sleep was tormented with dreams of being shot, the bullets ripping through his skin like paper, over and over; or Mark being beaten to death by the mugger; or Mark pushing him aside, and being the one shot. Panic grips him with claws of steel every night and morning, and he wakes up with exhaustion weighing him down before he’s even out of bed.

He can’t even imagine what Mark dreams of.

He can’t dwell on that, though. He’ll try and figure out something later. For now, he needs to record. 

It’s clear, though, only twenty minutes later, that the world is conspiring against him. Mark has a password on his computer, and the cameras are all dead, with all their chargers lost to the abyss that is Mark’s spare closet. 

He curses under his breath. Then he sighs, and goes down the hall to knock lightly on Mark’s door. Jack can’t hear anything behind the door, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

When Mark doesn’t respond, Jack opens the door a crack, sees Mark recording, eyes squinting in concentration as he leans closer to the screen. 

“Mark,” he says. Mark doesn’t move. “Oh, fer Christ’s sake,” Jack mutters. He approaches Mark - he doesn’t even care at the moment that he’s coming from Mark’s blind spot - and slaps a hand down on his shoulder. 

Mark screams. 

Jack can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes at the sight of Mark, wild-eyed, hair falling into his face, mouth still open mid-scream. (And yeah, maybe it’s a bit mean to scare Mark like this, only days after they had both nearly died. But they both need a bit of comic relief in their lives right now, and Jack doesn’t quite care how they get it.)

He reaches forward to push the headphones back off Mark’s ear, and then says, “What’s the password on yer computer?”

“You bastard,” Mark mutters. Then, louder, he says, “I’m leaving that in so people know how awful you are.”

“Do what yeh want, just tell me the stupid password so I can start working,” Jack responds. Mark runs a hand down his face, nodding tiredly. 

He digs around for a piece of paper, and finds a sticky note. He scribbles out a string of letters and numbers and presses it into Jack’s outstretched hand, and says, “That should be it. If not, then I have no clue.”

Jack sighs, but turns to leave. He hopes he’ll be able to get something done today. 

The password is correct, but it takes Jack another twenty minutes to make sure everything is set up correctly, and to find a working camera. (Why does Mark not have one with a working battery? Why does he have so many cameras that don’t work properly?)

But, finally, he can record, and it’s a good thing, too, because he’s not letting himself break a perfect string of uploads now. 

///

When Mark comes out of his room to find some lunch, Jack is nowhere to be found, although Mark can hear him talking. There’s no soundproofing in the extra room, and he feels like Jack is far too conscious of it, just by the way he seems to be restraining his energy. 

Chica is asleep on her bed, but he coaxes her up and lets her outside. She whines happily and wags her tail, then bolts to the yard and runs around manically. He leaves her be and heads to the kitchen, where he makes himself a sandwich. 

He eats it standing by the sink, scrolling through twitter on his phone, trying to ignore the wave of mentions all expressing their worries for Jack and him, the bottle of pills sitting so innocently on the counter next to him. 

It’s like they’re taunting him, saying, “Look what happened, all because you weren’t fast enough, or good enough.”

He goes outside, leaving his phone on the table, and throws a ball around for Chica to chase. 

After Mark has finished work for the day, with both his videos uploaded and tomorrow’s ready to go, he sprawls on the couch and watches mundane television, barely paying attention, his head turned towards the screen with glassy, unfocused eyes. He’s exhausted, can feel sleep creeping up on him, a result of the cocktail mix of nightmares and insomnia. 

Jack appears, half an hour later, and pushes at Mark’s legs until he pulls them up to make room for the Irishman on the couch. Mark watches as he leans his head back, studies the pale skin of Jack’s throat, the curve of his jaw. 

He swallows, forces his gaze away, and gropes for the remote sitting on the floor next to the couch. Then he tosses it into Jack’s lap, and says, “What do you want for dinner?”

Hours later, they’ve eaten a quick dinner of chicken and rice and badly-chopped veggies, and Mark falls into bed. He’s completely drained of energy, but he’s absolutely terrified of sleeping. Even he knows that he won’t be able to escape his dreams forever though, no matter how hard he tries. 

He’s still awake when the door creaks open. He manages to shove himself up to one elbow, and watches as Jack shifts in the doorway anxiously. 

“Jack?” he asks hoarsely. Jack shakes his head, then he’s walking into his room and approaching the bed. He stops by Chica, sleeping on the bed again, lifting one hand to touch her.

“I can’t sleep,” he mutters finally. “Not without nightmares. I can’t handle another night of them.”

Mark drops to his back, then lifts the duvet as an invitation. “Come on, then,” he near-whispers. “You can sleep in here. Maybe at least one of us will get some sleep.”

Jack crawls in next to him seconds later, and Chica squirms up the bed to lick his wrist as he pulls the blanket higher. 

It takes him longer to fall asleep with Jack there, but finally his friend’s deep, even breathing, and his dog’s warm weight next to him lure him to an almost-dreamless sleep.

///

They fall into a routine after that. 

Mark is always up first, as the late-night drugs combined with pushing himself hard during the day keeps Jack sleeping far later than he would like. Mark takes the opportunity to make breakfast, check his phone, and get dressed. 

By the time Jack wakes up, Mark is beginning to record. (He’s started leaving the door open a crack, and shoving his headphones further back on his ears, so he can hear Jack if he needs him. Jack doesn’t comment on it, and he’s extremely grateful for it.) Jack goes through his own routine of eating and getting ready for the day.

Then Jack goes to record his own videos, and they don’t see each other until lunch, where Mark emerges to let Chica out and grab something to eat. Jack always stumbles out once he hears Mark opening cupboards and clanking silverware, and Mark provides him with a plate of whatever he’s made. 

Then they go back to recording and editing. Jack hits his limit at about four or five, the pain in his torso becoming too much for him to continue doing whatever it is he’s doing. 

When Mark finishes up his own work, he always comes out to find Jack laying on the couch, glazed eyes staring at the TV as whatever he’s watching struggles to entertain the drowsy Irishman. 

Mark makes dinner after taking Chica for a walk. They eat and watch something, then they’re in bed by ten, and they’re too scared to sleep alone anymore. The nightmares lessen (without disappearing completely) when Jack is next to him, and he forces himself to ignore whatever implications that brings forth.

It’s a routine, and it’s comfortable. 

Then the routine is broken when, two days after that first night, Jack takes a shower. 

Mark is already recording when Jack knocks on the door and pokes his head in. Mark twists around in his chair to look at him, cocking his head curiously. 

“Can you help me with something?” Jack asks quietly. His green hair is damp and limp, dripping water onto his neck and bare shoulders. Mark swallows and nods, pausing the game quickly, incredibly thankful that his camera is pointed away from the door.

Mark follows Jack down the hall to the bathroom. He leans against the doorframe and studies the counter, where there are gauze pads and tape and clean towels, as well as a plastic bag and discarded plastic wrap. 

“I need you ta change my bandages,” Jack says - he's not even looking at Mark, but down at the floor. He bites his lip. “I can't reach my shoulder and I can't twist around fer my side either.”

“Hey,” Mark says quietly, stepping forward to set a finger under Jack’s chin, forcing him to look up and see his face. “I have no problem helping you with your bandages. You don't need to worry about asking.”

Jack's eyes are wide, again, and Mark finds himself desperately forcing his feet to step back. 

Why are his eyes so bright?

Jack stands still for one second, then pushes himself onto the counter to face Mark. (Mark gracefully ignores the grunt that slips from Jack's lips as he adjusts himself.) Mark moves next to him to wash his hands and stare at the medical supplies.

He needs to be very close to Jack in order to change the bandages efficiently. Biting back smart remarks, he steps in between Jack's spread legs and carefully, so carefully, removes the tape and gauze and plastic wrap from Jack's shoulder. 

The red wound underneath looks far too ugly to be on Jack's pale skin.

Mark pushes anger and grief down and reaches for a towel to wet and wash the section of skin gently. Jack's face pinches but he doesn't say anything.

To get to Jack's side, he needs to lean over slightly, spreading his feet to get lower. He forces himself to ignore how close he is to Jack's crotch and focus on falling into a rhythm of cleaning the incision on Jack's side. 

When he's done with that, he straightens and grabs a clean gauze pad and places it on Jack's shoulder, then takes the tape and rips off a piece. He gently sets the pad in place and tapes down one side. He continues tearing off strips of tape and securing the gauze, even when he needs to drop lower to finish Jack's side. 

His fingers rest on Jack's waist as he stands again, and he's stepping back quickly so Jack can stand as well. But as he's backing away, his feet get tangled in a towel lying on the floor - 

And he trips.

Into Jack. 

How had he even fallen forward?

Jack's arms had automatically come up to grab his shoulders, and Mark's right hand was on the counter, the left on Jack’s hip. They are far too close. 

Jack's cheeks are red, and Mark's face feels like it's on fire. 

Mark stutters out an apology and hurries out of the bathroom, deciding to wash his hands in the kitchen. 

///

Jack can still feel Mark's fingertips on his side hours later, and his face heats up as he watches drama unfold on the television. 

A woman is bright-eyed and red-faced as she watches a man cross the room towards her. She takes a step forward, uncertain, and the man smiles and hurries forward and she trips into his arms, her hair flying behind her as she laughs breathlessly.

The man is infatuated with her, watching as she smiles and hides her face as they embrace tightly, uncaring of the jealousy pouring off his ex as she watches.

Jack growls. “Fuck off, ya stupid show,” he mutters as he stabs the power button. He doesn't need a reminder of this morning’s intimacy between he and one of his closest friends. 

He sits there in silence, listens to the muffled sounds of Mark recording. 

Jack needs to do something. He'll go insane otherwise.

He stands, then, and goes to the kitchen. He hunts around in the fridge and finds extra chicken from dinner the other day, and decides to cook. 

It's the least he can do, considering Mark has been so kind in letting him stay here, and making sure he stays alive and fed.

Mark appears when he's halfway done with the vegetables he's adding, and smiles at him. “You didn't have to make dinner, you know.”

Jack grins back. “I know.”

Mark shoves himself next to Jack and takes over the chicken for him, against Jack's protests. He tries to push Mark away but Mark is too solid and his feet are planted so he gives up quickly. 

Dinner is ready soon after that. They take their plates to the couch, where Mark puts a random movie on for background noise. 

They eat and laugh and judge the crappy movie, and it's just like before, where they didn't have any cares and nothing was changed.

Everything is different, though, Jack thinks, studying Mark's profile, and he can't help wondering how their relationship will be affected in the long run.

///

With each day that passes, Jack becomes more and more confused and conflicted. He finds himself staring at Mark when the other man is focused on his work, or watching a movie intently. He watches his hands move as Mark speaks rapidly, telling a story that Jack is sure he has heard several times before. 

(He thinks about how nice it is, sitting next to Mark on the couch. Mark is like a furnace - he doesn’t need a blanket when Mark’s shoulder is pressed against his own, and Chica is draped over his feet, fast asleep. It’s been so long since he’s lived with another person, and it’s awesome living with Mark, however temporary it is.)

He enjoys the routine they have, where they work and eat together, hang out in the evenings, and then sleep in the same bed (he tells himself that it’s necessary, that without Mark next to him he wouldn’t sleep nearly as well, but shouldn’t he be forcing himself to sleep alone? He won’t be in America forever, he needs to return to Ireland in a couple weeks, and how will he sleep alone after having someone in his bed for so long?). 

The answer is that he doesn’t think he will. 

He’s not sure that he will be able to return to normal life in Ireland, not after the domesticity of living with another person, someone who understands his job, with the crazy hours and ridiculous dedication he gives it. Someone who understands him.

The realization comes to him in the middle of recording, and his eyes go wide with panic and his fingers freeze on the keyboard, causing his character to still. “Shit,” he whispers to himself. “Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He’s fucked.

///

Mark knows that Jack is - well, he’s not sure what exactly. Upset, maybe? 

Jack avoids his gaze whenever possible, and always seems a little shocked when he actually does look Mark in the face. He stays up later than he should, especially while he’s still healing. 

Mark doesn’t know what the hell happened, if it was something he had done, or how to fix it. 

“I don’t know what to do, Chica,” he says solemnly. The dog looks up at him curiously, head cocked to the side, and he bends to pet her. She wags her tail and licks his wrist, before he returns to work.

Jack comes in two hours later, and nearly scares Mark to death as he finds the Irishman behind him suddenly. Jack grins impishly, and Mark scowls back.

“How much work do yeh have left?” Jack asks, as Chica perks up at his voice. 

“Not that much,” Mark replies slowly, glancing back at his computer. “Why?”

“We’re going out,” Jack announces. “I owe yeh for dinner, and I need ta get out of the house before I fuckin’ lose it.”

And that’s how Mark finds himself sitting across from Jack in a relatively nice restaurant. 

Mark has never been here personally, although he’s heard good things about the food and the service. Jack is busy studying the menu with an intensity that is almost scary, seeing as he’ll probably end up choosing something simple anyways. 

The waitress comes, introduces herself as Margo and asks for drink orders with a bright smile. She’s young, hair in a dark brown, perky ponytail, and hazel eyes lined with black. There’s no sense of recognition, though, and Mark is so grateful for that. As much as he loves his subscribers, he also really loves the days where no one recognizes him, and he’s just another face in the crowd. 

He and Jack make small talk, after she leaves. Why is this so freaking awkward?, Mark asks himself, and he has no answer. 

(Mark pretends that he doesn't notice Jack’s keen gaze whenever a strange man passes too close to their table, and Jack ignores Mark’s too frequent glances at the couple next to them, the husband loud and angry.)

(It's hard to think about how their lives have been changed, nearly ruined, by one night, one panicked, desperate man with a gun.)

By the end of the night, however, he very much does have an answer to why it's so awkward, strange, where before their relationship had been easy and familiar. Whenever Jack speaks, his gaze is drawn to his friend’s mouth. When Jack’s voice rises with excitement, Mark can’t help the burst of fondness he feels. When Jack laughs at one of Mark’s, frankly terrible, jokes, he feels pride at being the cause. 

Fuck. 

Mark thinks that he will now be the one to act weird, rather than Jack.

///

Mark’s sudden realization - that he likes Jack, and not in a friend way (although he does) - has rocked his world. 

He finds himself thinking of it constantly, of what it would be like to date Jack.

(He believes it would probably be the same as their current relationship, just with kissing and sex and non-platonic cuddles added. Probably?)

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” he asks Chica. His dog only stares at him, head tilted. There is no pity in her eyes, she only continues to pant as he watches.

He sighs, drops his head in his hands, and wonders what the hell he’s going to do now.

Three more days pass, with Mark flailing awkwardly like a schoolgirl around a crush, even though that’s the only thing that really changes. They still fall into bed at the same time, and they’ve found the time to record a couple of collabs. 

But Mark knows that something has changed, without either of their permissions. 

///

Jack notices the second that Mark comes to a realization of his own.

He notices Mark going through a mini-crisis for the next few days. 

He also notices that Mark has been spending far too much time whispering to Chica, who just looks at her master with calm brown eyes and no advice. 

He snorts to himself every single time he sees the slightly-betrayed look on Mark’s face when Chica doesn’t give him the response he’s looking for. The man is utterly ridiculous, yet he can't help but feel warm fondness spread through his body at the sight every time. 

He doesn't know what to do with the information he now has. Does he tell Mark that he likes him? What would happen if he did? Would a relationship between the two of them even work out in the long run, with Jack living in Ireland, thousands of miles away? 

He's too scared to try anything, not now. Maybe it's just a crush, he tells himself. Maybe everything will go back to normal once I'm back in Ireland.

He won't know for sure until that happens, though, and he hasn't even been cleared to fly yet.

So he forces those feelings down, ignores them the best he can, and continues life the best he can.

Mark, however, has not let go of whatever he's realized. It seems to be haunting him, almost, and it causes Mark to act ten times more protective. Jack is barely left alone it seems, Mark is so panicked over the thought of something happening to him if he isn’t there.

If Mark asks him one more time if he’s okay, Jack will lose it on his ass. 

He tries, really he does, but everything has been adding up for several days, and finally, he blows up.

Mark is completely innocent, but he takes the brunt of the explosion. 

Jack’s sitting on the couch, playing with his phone. There’s a dull ache in his shoulder, not enough to be painful, only annoying. He’s taken his meds already, and there’s no reason to get up and swallow more, not yet. 

So when Mark finally comes out and flops down next to him, his grimace is clear and the slight groan he lets out is loud in his own ears. Mark turns to face him with a frown on his face.

“You okay?” 

“I'm fine,” Jack mutters. 

“Jack...” 

“I'm fine, alright? Can yeh stop asking?”

“What's wrong with you?” Mark snaps, his brow furrowed.

“Why do you care?” Jack snarls in return, his patience worn thin. “Why do you care so goddamn much?”

Mark's silence in the wake of his anger is deafening.

“You nearly died,” he says quietly, avoiding Jack's gaze.

“No shit, I was shot.”

“No, I mean . . . you stepped in front of that gun. You stepped in front of it, and I wasn’t fast enough to stop it happening. And then I tackled him . . . and you got hurt again. It was my fault, Jack,” he whispers. Dark eyes are wet with tears, and Mark’s hands are clenched against his thighs. “I could have stopped it, but I wasn’t good enough.”

Jack feels like he’s suffocating, watching Mark. He hadn’t thought of that night, the events, that way; he only remembers thinking, Mark can’t get shot. He can’t die. He never thought of what Mark had been going through watching him take those bullets, the pain of knowing that his actions actually caused the second gunshot wound. 

“Mark...”

“You know, when the doctor brought me back to see you, she told me that they nearly lost you on the operating table,” Mark continues, ignoring him. His wet gaze is far away, like he’s not there, with Jack, but reliving the moment in his head. “She said you were lucky to be alive, lucky to have me as a friend. And all I could think of was that it was ironic, so ironic, that you’re an Irishman in America, and you were lucky enough to be shot twice.” He starts laughing hysterically, tears beginning to fall.

“Mark,” Jack says, watching with wide eyes as Mark loses any control he might have had. Mark’s breathing is erratic, uncontrolled, and if he doesn’t calm down he’ll be hyperventilating soon. 

“Jack, don’t you understand?” Mark asks, staring at him intently; he’s not laughing anymore, but he’s still breathing hard. His voice is thick with tears, hoarse. It makes Jack sick that he’s the cause of it. “I can’t lose you. I can’t. Losing you… I don’t even want to think about what would happen to me.”

His head falls, gaze dropping to the ground as his hands rise to his hair, clenching his fingers in thick, red-dyed strands. Mark’s shoulders are shaking, sobbing openly now. Jack’s heart clenches in his chest, and he feels tears stinging in his own eyes. 

He drops to the ground, wincing at the pull in his side, and kneels in front of Mark. He puts his hands on tear-stained jeans, biting his lip, and whispers, “Look at me, Mark.”

When Mark finally lifts his head, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, Jack smiles gently. “It’s not yer fault that I got hurt, Mark. I don’t blame yeh and I never will. You did what yeh needed to.” He rises to his knees, putting him eye level with Mark, and wraps his arms around him. Mark shudders in his arms, and Jack holds him tighter, not caring that his shoulder is wet with snot and tears, not when Mark is barely keeping it together.

///

Mark falls asleep on the couch.

And Jack can’t stand being in the house, when it’s silent and calm where it should be loud with Mark’s voice and laughter and Chica’s barking. 

He leaves a note on the coffee table, and tells Chica to watch over Mark for him, and, before leaving, he can’t stop his gaze from settling on Mark’s still form. He watches for several seconds, focused on the rise and fall of his chest, and Jack sighs. He bends to brush the red hair out of Mark’s eyes, and he knows, without a doubt, that he’s a goner for the man in front of him.

He stands, shoves his wallet in his pocket, and starts heading for a Chinese place not too far away, planning to pick up dinner. 

He only makes it halfway before he has to sit down on a park bench, mind too heavy to focus on anything besides Mark. 

Mark’s panic had forced him to realize the truth: he could go back to Ireland all he wanted, but nothing would be the same. It would take months before he would be able to sleep alone in his own bed, months before he would be able to move on from the idea of being with Mark. 

But, even so, everything leads to two choices. 

One: they could forget the whole thing had ever happened, and move on with their lives, where Jack goes back to Ireland still single, heartbreak weighing him down as he returns to his life, their friendship strained and stressed after such close proximity and trauma. 

Or, they could try a relationship. It would be long-distance, almost one-hundred percent virtual, with their alone time cut short by nosy friends and hectic conventions, unless one of them uprooted their whole life to move to a different country. 

Jack knows that ending it before it begins is the right option, that it would be easier on both of them. But his heart disagrees.

He sighs, tips his head back to look at the fading day sky, clouded by pollution from the city. He misses the stars, the crisp cold of night in Ireland. If they gave a relationship a try, if Jack moved here, would he truly be happy? Could he adjust to Los Angeles after the stark difference of his life in Ireland? Would Mark move to Ireland, if he asked him? (That would be stupid, though, because their jobs are based in America.)

There are too many variables, too many questions.

It's late when he gets back an hour later, hot Chinese held in a plastic bag. The house is dark, only the kitchen light left on. He walks past Mark, still asleep, and sets the bag on the kitchen counter. He pulls out plates and silverware, dishing out food, and then he calls Chica into the kitchen and pours her dinner into her bowl. 

He brings the plates with him and sets them on the coffee table, then turns to Mark. The other man is wrapped around a pillow, face slack in sleep, hair a mess. Jack’s heart aches just looking at him.

He really doesn’t want to wake him up, but Jack also knows that Mark needs to eat. He crouches, sets a hand on Mark’s arm and shakes gently. He doesn’t even stir, and Jack sighs. “Mark,” he says quietly. “Mark, it’s time ta eat.”

He smoothes the hair out of Mark’s face, watching as the other man turns into the touch slightly. “Come on, Mark, time ta get up.”

Finally, Mark’s eyes open, bloodshot and rimmed pink, and he blinks rapidly, trying to focus on Jack’s face. Jack smiles, tugs lightly at Mark’s hair, and shifts back to show Mark the plates on the table. 

They eat quietly, and Jack is sure that part of that is due to Mark not being fully awake, but he’s glad for the silence anyways. If they tried to talk, it would surely be about topics far too serious than he’s willing to tackle right now. 

That night, Mark goes to bed far earlier than usual, citing exhaustion from the events of the day. Jack isn’t tired yet, so he tells Mark that he’ll come to bed after he’s checked on some things. 

Then he goes to his laptop, and Jack sets it on the coffee table, first checking social media, and making sure his videos are set for tomorrow. He comes up with a few video ideas, finds a few games to play. 

Jack knows he’s avoiding going to bed. He doesn’t particularly care at the moment. 

And then he hears Mark, hoarsely crying out in the bedroom, and his heart nearly stops as he slams his laptop shut and runs down the hall. 

The first thing Jack sees is Mark, head tossing back and forth. His hands are clenched in the bed sheets, and he’s mumbling to himself, words that Jack can’t hear. Chica is on the floor, head resting on the bed as she whines at her master’s distress. 

Jack goes to the other side of the bed, his side, and crawls into the middle of the bed as he shifts closer to Mark and reaches out to touch his arm. He shakes Mark, calling his name. 

Mark is still asleep, though, sweat on his brow. Jack raises his voice, pulling more insistently, and with one final gasp Mark finally wakes up, his face panicked as he sits up.

He looks at Jack for a moment, breathing hard, and then he's crying, muttering under his breath, “Thank God, it was just a dream, you're alright...”, over and over again. 

Jack is still holding his arm, and as he's about to drop it, he changes his mind and pulls Mark closer, dragging him into a hug as Mark sobs into his chest.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” Mark cries, and Jack shakes his head, drops his head on top of Mark’s. There are tears in his own eyes.

“It’s okay, Mark, yer okay,” he whispers into Mark’s hair. The other man shudders.

“It's okay,” Jack repeats. Mark shivers in his arms, tears slowing. Jack shifts back to sit against the headboard, Mark sliding down to face his stomach, and they fall asleep like that: Mark’s tear-stained face against Jack’s stomach, fingers tangled in the hem, while Jack combs through Mark's red-dyed hair.

///

The next morning Mark wakes alone, curled around a pillow that still smells like Jack. 

He rolls over, pushes his face into the mattress, feeling the headache from crying himself to sleep, the sticky tear tracks on his cheeks. He needs to get up, wash his face, drink some water, and find Jack. 

Clearly, they need to have a talk.

Jack is in the kitchen with a plate of pancakes. Mark wishes he could be surprised at this, but Jack is such a naturally sweet person that he's filled with fondness instead.

He really does love this man. Last night was only proof of that.

“Morning,” Jack says brightly, offering a steaming mug of coffee. Mark takes it gratefully and leans against the counter as Jack turns back to the sizzling pancake on the stove.

Mark watches, sipping his coffee and trying to start the desperately needed conversation. But each time, the words clog his throat and he's forced to swallow hot coffee to resist coughing. 

“We don't need ta talk if yer not ready, Mark,” Jack says. Mark's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Jack wasn't even facing him, how the hell did he know what he was thinking?

“No,” Mark says - and has his voice always been that deep? Or is it just fear and guilt choking him? - and sets his coffee down. “No, we do.” 

Jack finishes the last pancake, sets it on the plate, and turns the stove off. Then he turns to Mark, and says, “During or after breakfast then?”

They eat breakfast in silence, the only sound being that of metal scraping against ceramic as the tension mounts further. Mark is terrified of what the outcome of this conversation will be, if he'll still have Jack in his life or if Mark will lose him forever.

Mark does the dishes, afterwards, while Jack puts away the extra food. Then they move to the couch, where they sit quietly for a moment before Jack, the angel that he is, says, “I'm sorry.” 

The floodgates have opened. There's no going back now, no way for them to ignore the events of last night. 

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but Jack shakes his head. “No, let me finish,” he quickly continues. “I should have realized sooner what you were going through.” He stops, takes a breath. 

“I never even thought that you would blame yerself. I stepped in front of the gun to protect yeh, that wasn’t yer fault. It was my choice.” 

Jack twists so that he's facing Mark, leg tucked underneath his body, eyes wild with determination. “Yeh need to understand that I love you, no matter what. But what does that mean for us? For our lives, our channels?”

“You love me,” Mark says before he can stop himself. Jack hesitates for just a second, like he hadn’t meant to say that, but the smile that breaks out on his face is radiant and beautiful and Mark can feel himself falling just a little bit deeper in love with this man.

“Yes, Mark. I love you.” 

Mark laughs breathlessly, lurches forward to embrace Jack, holding him close as Jack giggles softly.

They shift apart, but Mark doesn't return to his side of the couch. He stays next to Jack, facing him, as their smiles fade to thin, worried lines. “What does this mean for us now?” Mark whispers. 

“We could do what we really want, and start a relationship.” Mark likes that idea. He doesn't like the way Jack frowns at the next sentence that leaves his own mouth. “Or we forget this ever happened and we return to our lives as single men.”

“I don't like the second idea,” Mark responds automatically. 

“Neither do I,” Jack admits. 

“So we need to figure out a relationship,” Mark says.

“Yeah.”

///

The next hour is consumed by them trying to figure out what their relationship will look like. 

It sucks, Jack living in Ireland, with Mark being in LA. It makes it nearly impossible to visit each other without extensive planning in advance, especially with their jobs, and their relationship will be almost completely virtual unless one of them moves.

(They argue about that, briefly, when Mark offers to move to Ireland to make it easier. Jack counters by reminding him that virtually everything for their jobs take place in America, that Mark’s family, his entire life, is in America, and that Mark leaving makes absolutely no sense.

“Let’s wait a little before anyone moves, okay?” he says, thumb brushing over the back of Mark’s hand.)

They talk about when they want to start telling people, their family and friends, if they’ll ever let their subscribers know. 

(They have an awkward conversation trying to figure out how this had even happened; neither one of them had ever been attracted to men before. They give up trying to label themselves quickly, however, deciding that it really doesn’t matter, as long as they were together and they were happy.)

But finally, they've discussed everything they can think of, and Mark grins at Jack - his boyfriend - and Jack places a hand on Mark’ neck, and the kiss that follows is sweet and slow and Mark is so happy that he could burst.

The following days are filled with laughter and a lightness that Mark hasn't felt in a long time.

But life continues. They record, edit, and upload their videos, and their routine stays the same, with gentle kisses and brilliant smiles added throughout the day. 

Their fans love the few collabs they've uploaded, and they're quick to realize that something has changed, even if they don't know what it is. Mark's laugh is louder, his eyes brighter, and Jack has more color in his cheeks, his smile wider. 

Anyone with eyes can see that they're happier.

Mark changes Jack’s bandages once more by the time Jack has a doctor’s appointment. Mark drives him, heart hammering in his chest as they wait, images of the worst possible scenario haunting him.

Jack is called back and Mark sits there for far too long, mind racing, eyes on the TV high in the corner even if he isn't paying attention. When Jack comes out again, thirty minutes later, Mark has nearly convinced himself that Jack is dying and that's why it's taking so long.

(Jack tells him, later, that he's ridiculous. Mark knows that, but at this point he can't help it. He's terrified of losing Jack, and his anxiety levels keep rising with each day that passes.) 

They stop to get a quick lunch on their way back home, and then Jack vanishes with a peck on Mark's cheek to start work for the day. 

Mark, on the other hand, decides to take Chica on a long walk, to get both of them out of the house for a while. 

He's back before Jack is finished for the day, and Chica runs to her water bowl immediately. Pink-faced, with sweat dripping down his neck, Mark follows her to grab some water for himself. 

His motivation returning, he checks on his latest video, making sure it's uploaded properly, and then starts recording another video.

///

Jack is worried about Mark.

His boyfriend - and even thinking that still brings a smile to his face - seems more tired than usual, like he hasn't been sleeping enough. 

Jack likes to think that they’re getting better, that they're pushing past the mugging. He's healing, angry red wounds faded to shiny pink scars. Mark’s face is better; the bruise is gone, and the cut is now a pale white line that's barely noticeable, unless you're looking for it. 

But while they've recovered physically, he's beginning to realize that mentally, it will take a much longer time for things to change. 

He knows Mark refuses to talk to him about the nightmares he still has every now and then. 

He knows, but he doesn't know what to do. 

Jack sets his video to upload then picks up his phone, sending a quick text to Bob and Wade asking for advice. Their responses are predictable.

Just talk to him.

Don't they know that he's tried that? That Mark always pales and shivers when that night is mentioned? That he denies anything being wrong when the topic is brought up, and he changes the subject to something simpler?

He sighs, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing his eyes. He lifts his head, looking at the time on the computer screen. 

It's not too late to try and talk to Felix, not yet.

He picks up the phone again, shooting off another text, this time asking if his friend is free for a Skype call. 

Felix responds soon enough; Jack is able to answer some emails while waiting. Minutes later, Skype is open and Jack smiles with relief upon seeing the slightly worried face on the computer.

“What’s up, Jack?” Felix asks, blue eyes squinting slightly. 

Jack barely even knows where to begin. But somehow, the entire story spills - minus the part where he and Mark are now in a relationship, they don’t want to tell anyone just yet, it’s too new - and Felix’s face changes from only slightly worried to extremely worried.

“Do yeh have any advice for me?” Jack finishes, his fingers clenching the fabric of sweatpants far too tightly. 

Felix thinks for a moment, eyes cast to the side of the camera. He frowns, finally, and opens his mouth to respond when suddenly his head whips to the side and he starts cursing in Swedish. (Is it bad Jack understands most of it?)

Felix lurches out of his seat, reaching for the ground, and he comes back into shot with a squirming Edgar in his arms. “I'll be back,” he says quickly, and vanishes from the room, calling for Marzia.

Jack laughs shortly, assuming Edgar had used Felix’s office as his personal bathroom once again. 

When Felix returns, without the dog, cleaning supplies in hand, Jack is on his phone. He's checking Twitter, mostly, but he's also looking at nearby therapists. 

Felix sits down, finally, blond hair messy as he runs his hands through it. “What was I saying?” 

“You were hopefully about to give me the best advice of my life,” Jack says. Felix grins, laughing. 

“I doubt that,” he starts. “But I truly think you should try and convince him to talk to someone. If what you're saying is true, then he needs help,” and here he pauses for a second. “You both do.” 

Jack sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that.” 

///

That night, Jack refuses to let Mark in the kitchen. He is determined to make dinner without Mark helping.

He's hoping that Mark will be less quick to anger after he's eaten a good meal.

So he keeps one eye on their dinner and the other on Mark, sitting on the couch with Chica at his feet. The TV is on, sound quiet. His eyes are closed, head tilted back, but his hand is stroking over the dog's head, indicating he's awake.

Jack sighs, and finishes cooking. Seeing Mark like this is upsetting for multiple reasons, one being that he knows Mark still blames himself, no matter what Jack tells him.

He pastes a smile on his face, and brings Mark a plate, kissing his cheek as he sets it in his lap. Mark’s eyes open, and his head turns to watch as Jack sits on the other side of him, pushing the remote out of the way. 

“Thanks,” he says, already lifting the fork to his mouth. Jack hums and tries not to panic.

“You alright?” Mark asks, ten minutes later. “You seem a little quiet.”

Jack's response - I'm fine - is right on the tip of his tongue. But he swallows it down and shakes his head slowly instead. 

“We need ta talk,” he says. He watches as Mark's eyes widen before he realizes what he's said. “Wait, no, calm down, I'm not breaking up with yeh, babe.” 

His hands are shaking slightly as he pushes his plate onto the table, but they're steady when they fall on Mark’s cheeks. He smiles gently. “We're not breaking up, don't worry. I'm not leaving yeh.”

Mark breathes out heavily, face relaxing. He smiles wanly. “What do you want to talk about then?” 

Jack bites his lip. His mouth opens, but it's several seconds before anything comes out as his brain tries to catch up. And finally, pathetically, what leaves his mouth is, “I'm worried about yeh.”

Mark blinks at him. “Okay,” he says. “I'm worried about you, too. Why are you worried about me?”

Jack barely even knows where to begin. “I know yeh aren't sleeping like you should. I know yeh have nightmares still.”

Mark’s face falls, and it breaks Jack's heart. “I hoped you hadn't noticed,” he murmurs. His head drops, his shoulders high, and he stares at his hands, hanging between his knees. 

Jack shifts closer, pushes his knee into Mark’s thigh, and takes Mark’s plate to drop it next to his. “I'm here if yeh want to talk, you know. What we went through . . . it was bad, but yeh don't need to carry it for the rest of yer life. We're both safe, and alive.”

Mark turns his body towards Jack, and the Irishman raises his arms to let Mark embrace him tightly. “I nearly lost you,” Mark whispers into his neck. “And I nearly killed him because of it. If that woman hadn't been screaming behind me, I wouldn't have stopped. I would have kept beating him for what he did.” 

You don't know that, Jack wants to tell him. But he thinks that Mark does know. That the thought has been haunting him all this time, that he would have killed the other man if the woman hadn't drawn attention to Jack. 

“Do yeh want to know why I pushed yeh out of the way?” Jack says, suddenly, into Mark’s hair. “I couldn't bear the thought of yeh getting hurt. Of anyone getting hurt, especially that innocent woman, but the thought of you getting shot terrified me.

“I couldn't even think. I just . . . acted, without a care to my own health. I think, even then, I loved yeh, even though I hadn't yet realized it.”

“We're quite a pair, huh?” Mark says wryly. He raises his head to look Jack in the eye. “You nearly got yourself killed, and I nearly killed someone else.” 

Jack rolls his eyes, even though Mark is telling the truth. “Felix says we need help.” 

“When did you talk to him?” Mark asks, confusion drawing his brows down. 

“Earlier today. I told him the uncensored version of what happened that night. He's adamant that we should talk to someone.” 

“He's not wrong,” Mark replies. He sighs, head falling back on the couch, one arm still wrapped around Jack. “I guess we should do something, huh?” 

Jack is just relieved the conversation didn't end in screaming. 

///

Jack tells Mark that they have an appointment the next day, in the early afternoon. Mark nods, and returns to work. 

The rest of the day finds Mark alternating between blind panic and calm acceptance. When he's not silently freaking out, he's forcing himself to work, recording and editing until he has no choice but to stop when Jack comes to get him. 

The drive there is quiet, the only sound being the music that drifts from the speakers. Mark is clutching the steering wheel tightly, but he can't make himself relax. 

(It doesn't help that he hadn't slept well, again.) 

The waiting room is empty, except for the secretary. Jack gives her a smile, accepts the paperwork, and they fill it out. (Mark hates the feel of the paper against his fingers, the pen clenched in his hand.) 

They're called back shortly after, and Mark thinks, distractedly, that normally people go alone to appointments like this, don't they? He's not actually sure, but either way, he's incredibly grateful that Jack is at his side. 

The doctor is an older woman, brown hair streaked with gray, pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She smiles warmly at them, invites them to sit down, and introduces herself as Dr. Mandy White.

She asks them basic questions at first, getting to know them. Mark's heart is pounding. His knee is bouncing uncontrollably, and Jack keeps glancing at it out of the corner of his eye. It finally gets to the point where Jack reaches over, grabs Mark’s hand (which is shaking slightly) and links their fingers together, at the same time pushing on his knee to force it to stop.

The doctor notices it, her keen eyes assessing. “How long have you two been together?” she asks smoothly. 

Mark swears he's going to have a heart attack by the end of this appointment. 

“We've known each for a couple years now, but we only started dating recently, “ Jack answers brightly. 

“Congratulations are in order then,” White says. “If you're comfortable talking about it, I'd like to know, from both of you, why you are here today.” 

Mark squeezes Jack’s hand. He swallows. “There was an incident, a couple weeks ago,” he forces out. Why is he so scared? “I can’t really sleep, ever since.”

“And we both… struggle, sometimes, being in public,” Jack adds. 

She hums slightly, watching them. “What exactly happened?”

The next twenty minutes go the same way, with explanations and questions that all lead to Mark feeling both incredibly uncomfortable, as the doctor seems to unearth his soul, as well as incredibly relieved. It feels great to actually talk about some of these things, especially with someone qualified to help. 

At the end, she leans back and studies them for a second. She seems to be thinking, her eyes thoughtful. “PTSD. I'm hesitant to prescribe anything, as you seem to be doing very well despite the sleeplessness,” she tells Mark. “The entire incident happened only a couple weeks ago, correct? It was traumatic for you. Over time, you should be able to control the panic, and we can work on the nightmares.” 

She turns her gaze to Jack then. “Now, for you, I recognize that you won’t be remaining in America. I can’t say I know of any therapists in Ireland that I can refer you to if needed, but I can certainly find some if you would like?”

Jack shakes his head. “No, thanks,” he says with a smile. “I have a big family, I’m sure one of ‘em has one.”

She nods. “Alright, well. I would like to see you again, Mark, if that’s alright. Let’s say, sometime next week?” Mark nods hesitantly. “Jack can come with you, if you like, and he’s still here. We can do whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

Mark looks with desperate eyes at Jack, not even caring that he’s at what could be his most pathetic. Jack smiles gently and nods. “I’ll be there if yeh want me to, love,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, looking at Jack instead of the doctor. “We’ll be back next week.”

///

White gives Mark several suggestions on how to try and handle the nightmares, among them exercise, yoga, trying to control them, cutting out stress, and talking to someone about them (when she says this, she glances at Jack, but doesn’t say anything beyond that). 

Exercise? Easy enough, he can just go back to the gym (he had stopped when he left for the convention, and then Jack’s wounds were more important than keeping up with a fitness regimen). Yoga? He could do that. Cutting out the stress in his life?

Slightly more difficult. 

Half his job is stress, and he can’t just stop working. 

“You okay, Mark?” Jack says, sitting across from him in the little Italian restaurant they had stopped at for dinner. He’s put his menu down, elbows on the table, leaning forward a little to stare at Mark with barely-concealed worry in his blue eyes. 

Mark smiles slightly. “Yeah, Jack,” he says. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He wants nothing more than to lean across the small table and kiss Jack senseless, but they’re in public and they still want to keep their relationship a secret. 

Their families don’t even know yet; it would be bad if they find out through a trashy online article. Mark knows that his mother would be furious with him. 

Dinner is nice. They share a large pizza, one that, between the two of them, they nearly finish completely. 

Mark drives them home. The sky is growing darker, the sun fading into pinks and reds and oranges. Jack has his head tilted towards the window, eyes focused on the sunset. 

And Mark really doesn’t want to break the calm atmosphere, he doesn’t want to think about the future. But the doctor… her words. Jack won’t be staying in America. His home is in Ireland, he’s an Irishman. His family is there, his life. Where does Mark fit into that? How are they going to keep up a barely-started relationship when they’re separated by an entire continent, an ocean?

“Jack,” he starts, and then his voice fails him, and he swallows thickly. 

“What’s up, love?” Jack says, turning to face him. 

“How - what are we doing?” Mark bites his lip. “I mean, you’re - you’ll be in Ireland again in weeks. And we - “

“Mark,” Jack shifts so his entire body is facing him, “we’ll figure it out. If we need ta plan a secret rendezvous every month, then so be it. If we need ta… have Skype dates every Tuesday night,” and this is said with the slightest chuckle, “then so be it.”

Mark has to watch the road, else they’d be run off the road, hit a tree or a lamp post. But he wants nothing more than to turn to Jack, just look at his face. Memorize the lines of it, the exact color of his blue eyes. The wisps of green hair, hanging over his forehead. 

“We have time before I leave, Mark. We have the time to figure out something - a temporary plan, I guess. But let’s . . . let’s wait until we get home, okay? Concentrate on the road. We’ll talk then.”

Mark nods. 

He drives.

///

Chica barks happily when Jack walks through the door. He smiles and scratches behind her ear, and Mark slides around him, hand touching his waist, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

Jack hums and mumbles nonsense to the dog, before he stands and asks her, “Do yeh want dinner, girl? Food?”

She wags her tail and Jack laughs, following her to the kitchen, where he pours food into her bowl. 

He watches her eat for a minute or so, then turns to place the leftover pizza in the fridge. It will probably be their lunch tomorrow. 

Mark comes back, wiping his hands on his jeans, and smiles at Jack. Jack grins back, reaching out to pull Mark into the kiss he’s been craving all day. 

Kissing Mark is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Soft lips, warm pressure on the back of his neck from Mark’s hand, the smile he can feel against his mouth. It’s an addicting sensation. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he’s back in Ireland, when Mark and his mouth are thousands of miles away from him. 

He wishes that this could last forever, that they could live in this protected bubble where it’s only the two of them, and they don’t have to worry about the future. But that’s not possible, and he has another doctor’s appointment in a couple of days so he can be cleared to fly home. 

Eventually Mark pulls back, and Jack sighs. “I guess it’s time to talk, yeah?”

Mark nods, brushing his hand through Jack’s hair. “I don’t know if I can let you go,” he admits quietly, and Jack’s heart breaks just a little. He wraps his arms around his boyfriend, hugging tightly, and Mark’s arms fall to his waist in response. 

“You will never have ta let me go, Mark,” he whispers. “I promise. We’ll figure it out. It’ll take planning, but we can make this work.”

He feels Mark’s breath against his neck, warm and damp, and he closes his eyes tightly, trying to memorize the feeling of having this man in his arms.

They go to bed late that night, far too late, but Mark convinces Jack to come with him on a walk with Chica, film a collab, and watch a movie before Jack is finally falling asleep on Mark’s shoulder. 

Jack is almost asleep when Mark whispers, “Do you want to know what I dream about?”

Jack wakes up quickly, lifting his head to look at Mark in the dark. His boyfriend is staring at the ceiling, biting his lip, and Jack murmurs, “Only if yeh want to tell me.”

“I dream that you’re dying and I can’t do anything about it, or that I’ve lost you in every single way possible. I dream that I’m the one dying, leaving you behind, or that Harding escapes and comes back to finish the job.” Mark heaves a deep breath. “I can’t escape them. I can go days without having one, and then go days with having one.”

“Come here, love,” Jack whispers, lifting an arm, and Mark shuffles closer and rests his head on Jack’s shoulder. 

They fall asleep like that, Jack whispering reassurances, Mark breathing deeply beside him. 

///

The hospital is the same as it was the last time they were here. The same off-white walls, black waiting room chairs, even the same nurse that leads Jack back to the examination room. 

His doctor - Dr. Juarez, a young woman, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed - comes in a short time later.

“Good morning, Jack,” she chirps, and Jack swears there’s actual sunshine leaking from her pores. He can be as excited and happy as the next person, but Juarez is on another level completely. 

“Morning,” he says.

“So,” she starts, strolling over to the sink in the corner and washing her hands. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m feeling great, actually.”

She smiles brightly. “That’s fantastic.”

She clears him to fly fifteen minutes later, and Jack leaves the room grinning, only to realize halfway down the hall what that means. 

He’s leaving soon. 

He’s leaving Mark. 

///

Mark gets a call, the day before Jack leaves. Ramirez greets him calmly, uncaring of the fact that Mark’s heartbeat has just gone through the roof as panicked thoughts consume him. (Did Harding escape? Was he let go? Are they in danger?)

“He pled guilty,” Ramirez says. “He won’t be leaving prison for a while. His sentence is ten years.”

Mark hangs up moments later, relief clouding his vision. He stares at his computer screen, dark with inactivity. Then he shouts, “Jack!” and he stumbles out of the room to burst into the spare room, where Jack turns, startled, in the middle of recording. 

“Ten years,” Mark breathes. “He pled guilty. He got ten years.”

Jack’s blue eyes widen, mouth dropping open. He shoots up to his feet, crossing the room quickly. “Are yeh serious, Mark? Yer sure?”

Mark nods, and they laugh and hug each other, one worry gone from their mountain of them. 

///

The airport is already busy, considering how early it is. Jack had managed to get a seat on one of the earliest flights they had, wanting to get home at a semi-reasonable time. 

Mark stands next to him, a ball cap pulled low over his eyes to cover his bright hair. Jack’s throat feels tight, watching Mark study the boards of flights. Dark eyes are keen, shadowed by the cap. 

“I have ta check in,” Jack hears himself say, feeling detached from his body. He doesn’t want to leave, no matter how much he needs to go home. At the very least, he needs to see his parents, assure them in person that he’s perfectly fine. 

Mark hangs back while Jack gets his ticket. He’s on his phone when Jack comes back, texting someone. 

“Walk me ta security?” Jack says, and Mark looks at him, smiles, and their shoulders brush as they walk forward. 

They stop, then, and Jack sighs. He can’t afford to linger - his flight leaves in fifty minutes, and he needs to walk a long ways. Mark makes him want to, though, makes him want to give up everything he’s ever known, just to be with him for a little longer. 

They embrace tightly, whispering “I love you” to each other. They pull apart as fast as they can force themselves to, ever-conscious of their public presence.

Mark watches him go through security, and on the other side, the security guards and detectors a wall between them, Jack waves and watches Mark leave the airport, sighing heavily. 

Ireland is the same as always. A little cold, rainy, cloudy. His apartment is dusty and cold, a result of him not being here in weeks. He spends an hour throwing out food, cleaning up where he can, before he collapses on his bed and falls into an uneasy sleep, all too aware of the absence of another body.

Life resumes as normal. He makes a vlog to announce he’s back home, that his schedule will resume as always, and thanks his subscribers for their patience and kind words. 

He texts Mark constantly, and they call each other at least once a day. Hearing his voice makes Jack’s light up with a smile.

He visits his parents one weekend, hugging his mother tightly and smiling whenever she mentions Mark, how nice he was to let him stay with him, how she would love to meet the man who took such good care of her youngest. 

A month after he’s returned, Jack still finds it difficult to sleep without Mark, or even just not having Mark with him at all. It’s amazing how quickly he had adapted to having Mark always with him. 

He’s making himself a quick lunch, mind racing with all the things he has to do, like food shopping, editing, recording. He needs to finish his laundry, clean up in general. 

A knock on the door startles him, and he frowns as he puts down the slice of pizza he had pulled out of the fridge. He wipes his palms on a towel next to the sink, throwing it behind him as he walks toward the door. 

“Hello?” he says as he pulls it open, and then freezes. Mark stands in front of him, suitcase behind his legs, crooked smile on his face. 

“Hey, Jack,” he says, smile broadening. “Told you I couldn’t stay away.”

Jack laughs, throwing himself forward into his boyfriend’s arms, and he’s never been more in love with this man than in this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please leave kudos or a comment! I also did write a sequel (much, much shorter than this) so if anyone wants, I may upload that at a later date.


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